


I'll Be Your Number One With A Bullet

by pocket_companion



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: 19th/21st century jumping, Alternate Universe - 19th Century, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Drama, Episode: The Abominable Bride, M/M, Sherlock Special, Spoilers for The Abominable Bride, and not graphic either, dream - Freeform, someone dies but it's "off screen"
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-24
Updated: 2016-01-24
Packaged: 2018-05-16 00:41:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5806618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pocket_companion/pseuds/pocket_companion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>--- CONTAINS MAJOR SPOILERS FOR THE ABOMINABLE BRIDE ---</p><p>The waterfall scene from The Abominable Bride - with one, significant change: Instead of Jim Moriarty gaining power over Sherlock Holmes, it is the other way around. Fortunately, a pretty damn clever handyman reaches the scene just in time...</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'll Be Your Number One With A Bullet

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to the awesome Amba for being my beta and to the great Maggie for the idea of this fic! And, as always, thanks to Sam, the best Captain and sister I could ever have wished for. 
> 
> Comments and kudos are very much appreciated.
> 
> Disclaimers:  
> \- The title is a line from the song "Sugar We're Going Down" by Fall Out Boy and does, thus, belong to Fall Out Boy and not me. 
> 
> \- Almost all characters and almost the whole plot of this fanwork belong to the BBC and the creators of Sherlock. All sentences marked with an asterisk are (with minor adjustements) transcripts from the show and do belong to the BBC and the creators of Sherlock. 
> 
> AS STATED ABOVE, THIS FANWORK CONTAINS MAJOR SPOILERS FOR THE ABOMINABLE BRIDE AND I DON'T WANT TO BE RESPONSIBLE FOR SPOILING YOU GO AND WATCH IT <3

**I’ll be your number one with a bullet**

 

The end was clear from the beginning. It was always supposed to be like this; Sherlock and you. The great mist of cascading water, the depths of the unknown hellish cauldron far, far down the waterfall. In the end, it doesn’t matter how you got there. All that matters is that you are there, he is there and that the end is near.

You chit-chat a bit, the usual combat of two brilliant, overwhelming minds, but all the talk does nothing to conceal the fact that the end is inevitable. It is as if all time has formed a great funnel and this is where you crash, – Sherlock and you – where it all stops. You deserve the stop, don’t you? All that racing in your mind, that constant hunt and the ever-lasting noise; you deserve that and there will be nothing but blank silence soon. For a moment, you feel the ghost of a memory circling you, a flash in front of your eyes. Is it even your memory? Is it his? It whispers a couple of words to you about a London of the future, so much greater than anything that has ever been, and about a man with hands steady as a surgeon’s but with acts that are a force of nature, too quick and too brutal, too primordial to be stopped. The memory haunts you for a second, then it is gone – leaving your mind; leaving you behind with nothing but the running waters and the darkness and Sherlock, always and forever Sherlock.

‘You’ll be going in the water*,’ he tells you and then his hands are on you, grip your clothes and your throat with a hiss. You push him back, you manage to push him off, but he is back at you the next instant and pushes you down, down, down, with inhuman strength. ‘Oh, you think you’re so strong, Moriarty. Not with me*,’ he yells and it is the first time you see your own madness on another man’s face.

You fight, you push and topple and he towers over you, a fixed point in spacetime, and you cannot wrap your mind around him. It is not Sherlock, who pushes you down, it is the idea of him that keeps you on your back, on the ground, and he laughs. ‘I am your weakness! I keep you down!*’

You do not move, not even when his face is suddenly close to yours. You see yourself as a reflection in his eyes and for a split second, you wonder if this is all you have ever been; a reflection of Holmes, on Holmes.

‘Every time you stumble, every time you fall, when you’re weak, I am there! Don’t try to fight it!*’ he lures you in and he must have kicked you because there is a burning, searing pain to your side.

You open your mouth, you try to regain your breath and voice, but neither returns to you. Sherlock, you realise, is right. It does not matter who is the reflection and who the actual man, because you are nothing without him and he is nothing without you. You try one last time to struggle against him as he lifts you up by the collar of your jacket; as if you had lost your body and everything that used to be you already.

‘Shall we go over together?*’ he asks and yet, it is not a question. It is fate, and that is all there ever was. ‘It has to be together, doesn’t it? It’s always just been you and me,*’ he continues and the cliff is so close, so close. That is it, that has been it, and in a second, you will never be again. Sherlock stares at you, everything seems to lose its colour and shape and ceases to exist, just like you will right now. There is a last breath that you take and both you and Sherlock gravitate towards the fall, the centre of your earth.

Suddenly, the world tilts. Someone clears their throat. You see him, over Sherlock’s shoulder, and he is standing on the narrow path as if he had been there the entire time. There is a soft click as he takes the safety off his gun and raises his arm, steadily, unwaveringly, like a surgeon and yet, he is so much more. Sherlock’s grip goes slack and you are free, you breathe, and the world starts to turn again, albeit very tentatively at first.

‘Holmes,’ he says, and there is the dry grain of humour in his voice that is always there when he is between anger and thrill and amusement. ‘If you wouldn’t mind stepping away from my partner, I do believe he finds your attention a tad annoying,*’ Sebastian adds and you realise, for the first time and all of a sudden, that your fate is not only bound to Holmes’, but also to Moran’s. He is yours, you have known that for a long time, but it dawns on you just now, slow like a winter sun: It might also be the other way around. You are his. And somehow, it is alright.

‘That’s not fair, there’s two of you,*’ Holmes complains, annoyance seeping through his voice and you take another step away from him, away from the hell that has been waiting for you. All of a sudden, the waterfall seems less violent and the night much lighter, as if Sebastian, he, who carries the name of a Saint – which is nothing but a mockery of religiosity – has brought the light.

‘There’s always two of us, haven’t you heard about it?*’ he asks Sherlock and his gun is still aimed steadily at the detective’s heart. ‘On your knees, Holmes. Hands behind your head,*’ Sebastian orders with all the authority in the world and sometimes you need to be reminded of it. Of who he is and who he was and how he can silence people with nothing but the tone of his voice. No wonder you are drawn to each other, belong to each other. You do not even need to thank him, you know that he is aware of it, he always is.

Sherlock has not moved from where he is kneeling between you; it seems as if he barely has the strength to anymore. Earlier, you were fading away as he took the power, and now it is him in that position. You know you are winning, like you always do, in the end. It is inevitable.

‘Time you woke up, Jim,*’ Sebastian tells you and cocks his head slightly, grinning. ‘I know about stories, I know when I’m in one,*’ he explains even before you can question him, and you mirror his grin, nothing more than a reflection of his expression on your face.

‘Of course. Of course you do, Sebastian,*’ you consolidate and he meets your eyes, calm and steady. Sherlock and Sebastian, no one but them can bear looking you in the eye.

‘So, what’s he like, the other me, in the other place?*’ Sebastian inquires, unashamed of his curiosity.

You shrug, then raise your head, tilt it up a little. ‘Smarter than he looks*,’ you reply and his grin grows on his face, turns sharkish. ‘Pretty damn smart, then.*’ – ‘Pretty damn smart*,’ you agree and it is only now that Sherlock seems to muster up some strength to oppose you one last time.

‘Why don’t you two just elope, for God’s sake*,’ he tries to mock you, but all that his words cause are a slight tsk-ing noise from Sebastian.

‘Impertinent*,’ he judges and you nod, grin still matching his. ‘Offensive*,’ you agree and this is what it is like to be on the same wave-length, to be made of the same stuff. ‘Actually, would you mind?*’ Sebastian asks and gestures at Sherlock, as if he was truly thoughtful about the whole matter, as if it were not decided already. ‘Not at all*,’ you answer and Sebastian needs no more permission, nor incentive, as he steps forward and plants his boot between Sherlock’s shoulder blades. Down he goes, the detective with the funny hat, gone he is.

Sebastian turns back to you, eyes meeting yours once more. Even though he is quite a bit taller than you, he has never towered over you the way Sherlock has. Sherlock and you, you are competition, fighting over a niche in the ever-evolving world, but Sebastian just _is_ , plain enough. He knows his place and it is right behind you. He’s got your back, that is how it is.

‘So, how do you plan to wake up?*’ he asks, grin turning into a smile and you step closer, hand cupping his neck as you draws him in.

‘I should think like this*,’ you decide and blink and when you open your eyes again, he is still there, even though everything else has changed. Your breath is slow and the memories of your dream are just as vivid as each and every memory you have made when you were awake, in the time you belong in now. Light filters in through the curtains of your bedroom and falls onto Sebastian’s bare back, onto the sheets that are tangled around his hips.

He is asleep, arm over your chest, sprawled on his stomach and taking up more space in your bed and life than you expected him to when you first met. You free yourself of his hand, push it down a bit so you can sit up, and rub your eyes. Sebastian mutters something in his sleep and you smile down at him, like he smiled down at you at the waterfall – in a different life, a different time. Dreams do not tell you about the future, you are more than aware of that, but what they do tell you is what you have always known and never realised.

‘You and me’ you say quietly and run your hand through Sebastian’s hair. ‘You and me.’

 


End file.
